


These are the days of miracle and wonder (this is the long distance call)

by caranfindel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, ArchAngel Michael - Freeform, Gen, Hallucifer, Hell Trauma, Pre-Season/Series 01, Stanford Era, Supernatural Summergen Fic Exchange, Witch Sam Winchester, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-11 23:56:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 10,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15983216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caranfindel/pseuds/caranfindel
Summary: Sam Winchester's life has been touched by many things - love, loss, fear, hope, pain, and always, in the background, witchcraft. Written for the 2018 Summergen challenge, for the amazing Quickreaver.





	1. Sandusky, Ohio

_I. Sandusky, Ohio. Sam Winchester is five years old._

Sam talks to things that other people don't talk to. He thanks the grass for being cool and soft under his feet. He tells the birds their songs are pretty. He doesn't use his voice; he talks to them in his head. And sometimes they answer.

(Not with words. That would be silly. Birds don't know words. Grass doesn't know words. But they answer, all the same.)

It never occurs to him that other people don't do the same thing until the day Dean kills a spider in the bathtub. "Why didn't you just ask him to leave?" he asks.

Dean laughs like it's a joke, and it makes Sam feel inexplicably hot and angry inside. "It's not funny," Sam says. "You didn't have to kill him. You could have just told him to get out of our bathtub."

Dean rolls his eyes dramatically. "People can't talk to insects, Spider-Man."

"Not the way you talk to people, but you can tell them things. _You_ know." Surely Dean knows. Dean knows everything. It's just one of those things everyone can do and you don't talk need to talk about, like the way you can un-focus your eyes, or feel if it's going to rain. Isn't it? 

But Dean takes a long time to answer, and Sam gets an uncomfortable feeling deep in his belly. "No, Sam," he finally says. "You can't tell them things. They're _spiders._ People can't talk to _spiders._ Not normal people." Something about Dean's expression - a little angry, a little worried, a little frightened - makes Sam think people aren't _supposed to_ talk to spiders. "I mean, you don't think you're really talking to them, right?"

"No, I know," he says quickly. "I was just joking." He doesn't bring it up again. He feels like he did something bad, something wrong, and he doesn't want Dean to look angry-worried-frightened at him again.


	2. Waterloo, Iowa (I)

_II. Waterloo, Iowa. Sam Winchester is six years old._

Barbara O'Malley meets Sam when his father gets involved in a hunt with her husband. "Decent guy," Andy O'Malley says. "Kind of obsessed, but I guess a lot of us are. I feel bad for the kids, though."

Barbara feels bad for them too, and invites John to leave them with her instead of whatever else he's been doing for childcare while he and Andy do research and reconnaissance. When she finds out that his childcare plans have actually been for them to stay in the hotel room alone, all day, with ten-year-old Dean in charge, she's horrified. She wants to grab John by his shoulders and shake him, scream in his face until he _gets it_ , because losing a wife to whatever lurks in the dark is bad enough, but losing your _child?_ He can't even _imagine_ that pain. How dare he take that risk.

Instead, she calmly insists the boys stay at her house.

Dean considers himself too old to be babysat, and once he determines Barbara isn't a threat to his little brother, he's content to watch TV or read comic books and ignore the two of them entirely. But little Sam thrives on the attention. 

"Don't get too attached," Andy warns her kindly. And she knows what he's worried about. In some ways, Sam fills the gaping hole left in her life. It would be so easy to pretend she has Brendan back again. Sam has the same round baby face, same mop of dark hair, same old soul looking out through young eyes. But unlike Brendan's clear, untroubled grey eyes, Sam's changeable eyes (moss green one day, sunflowers against a blue summer sky the next) often seem touched with concern. He's different, this boy. But still, he's sweet and kind and affectionate, and just having him around eases the ache of her loss a tiny bit.

One day Dean arrives, gives her his typical polite but perfunctory greeting, and tells her Sam went straight into the back yard. She goes outside to meet him. "Hey, Sammy," she says cheerfully. "You want to swing today?"

Sam's staring forlornly at the backyard of the house next door. "Miss Barbara?" he says. "That dog is sad. She knocked her water bowl over, and she's thirsty. Can we give her some water?"

Barbara can see the Wilson's old dog, Piper, through the chain link fence. Usually she's happy to nap on the sun-warmed stoop, but today she's whining at the door. "Well, Piper's a sweet dog," she says. "I don't know why we can't go help her, as long as you do exactly what I say." Sam nods eagerly. She takes his hand and leads him into the Wilson's back yard, positioning him safely behind her legs. She shows him how to hold his hand out and let the old dog sniff it. "It's okay, Piper," she says. "You know me, and Sam's my friend."

Piper licks Sam's hand and wags her tail, and Barbara doesn't sense any fear or danger from her, so she lets Sam scratch behind her ears while she looks for the water dish. She finally finds it behind a prickly holly bush next to the small concrete stoop. Which is odd. There's no way Sam could have seen that dish from her back yard. She fills the dish from the outside spigot and puts it on the bottom step. 

As Piper eagerly laps up the water, Barbara says "Sam? How did you know she knocked her water over? Did you see her do it?" 

Sam stares at her, wide eyed, as if he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "No, I, um... I don't know, I guess she just sounded sad. And thirsty."

"Okay." She smiles reassuringly, careful not to betray anything, and he relaxes. They find a chewed-up tennis ball in the backyard and throw it for Piper to chase for a few minutes, then leave her sunning happily on her stoop.

"So, how does Piper feel now?" Barbara asks casually, as they walk back to her yard.

"She's happy," Sam answers. "She liked playing with us, but she's tired now." He stops with a gasp as he realizes he revealed something he wasn't supposed to reveal.

But Barbara keeps smiling. "That's good," she says. "I'm glad she told you that. She told you about the water too, didn't she?"

Sam looks away fearfully and refuses to answer, and Barbara's heart sinks. This poor little boy has such a gift, and is so afraid to let anyone know, and she wonders what his father has said or done to instill that fear. "It's okay, Sam," she says. "You didn't do anything wrong. You can tell me about it." 

He peeks at her from the corner of his eye, and apparently her smile is convincing enough.

"She told me," he says tentatively. "Not with words, just with pictures. I saw her dish on the ground." 

"I see," she says, still giving him the warmest, most maternal smile she can muster. "That's a very special trick, isn't it? I can do it a little bit, but not as good as you."

Sam's eyes open wide in surprise - whether it's from someone actually considering his talent a _good_ thing, or meeting another person who shares it - and the floodgate is opened. He tells her about talking to birds, and flowers, and insects, and she nods encouragingly and tries to get him to open up more, but he stops. 

"Dean said I can't talk to spiders. He said regular people can't talk to bugs and stuff." His happiness fades to guilt.

"Well, no, I guess regular people can't do that. I guess some of us are a little better than regular, aren't we?" Sam's eyes go wide again; the idea that he could ever be better than his big brother is probably heresy to him. This sweet, special little boy just needs a mentor. And with his father and brother prejudiced against his natural talents, he'll likely never have one.

"You know," she says, "there's nothing wrong with you. There's nothing bad about what you can do. But only special people can do it, and some people don't understand that being special is a good thing."

"Like Dean."

"Like Dean. And probably your father too. So it would be best if you kept it a secret."

"But I'm not supposed to keep secrets from Dad."

(No, and your father isn't supposed to treat your talents like they're something bad, either. Typical hunter bullshit. Barbara doesn't really care what John Winchester wants right now.)

"Good point. That's a good rule. But what about _surprises?_ Surprises are different, right? Like if you were learning a magic trick, and you didn't want him to know about it until you were really, really good at it?" Sam nods. "So, this will be a surprise for your dad. Someday you'll be really good at it, and you'll show him, and he'll be happy and surprised. But for right now, you just keep it to yourself, okay?"

"But I can tell _you,_ right?"

She wraps him in a hug, and when his tiny arms hug her back, she never wants to let him go. "Absolutely, Sammy. You can tell me anything."

. . . 

He's only six years old, too young to really learn witchcraft at all, but he's so intelligent and so eager that she can't help trying. First she performs a simple cleansing ritual, passing an egg over him and concentrating on any impurities transferring to the egg. She breaks it open and finds nothing. He's pure and clean, just as she knew he must be.

Next, she has him memorize a simple spell.

_None be harmed_  
_And all be free_  
_This is my will_  
_So mote it be_

He takes it seriously, repeating the spell with the exact inflections Barbara uses, tiny mouth forming each word correctly, asking her what _mote_ means, committing it to memory.

"Say that three times every time you get to a new place to stay," she instructs him. "Say it really quiet, so no one hears you. You can go into the bathroom to say it, if you want." He nods solemnly, so intent on doing it right. What she could do with this boy in a few years! But there's no time. All she can do now is give him the basics, and set him on a path of future self-discovery.

"The most important thing is to never use your magic to harm anyone," she says. "Not even if you think they're bad. Not even if they're mean to you. It's not fair to use your powers to hurt people who don't have the same powers, because they have no way to fight back."

"It would be like if Dean beat me up, cause he's so much bigger than I am," Sam says.

"Exactly. It would be exactly like that."

"Dean would never beat me up, even though he can. I'm gonna be nice to other people like he is."

"That perfect, Sam," she says, feeling an odd sense of pride. He's not hers to be proud of, but she can't help it. "That's just what you should do."

. . . 

Late one afternoon they're sitting on the back patio practicing simple spells. Barbara teaches them to Sam in sing-song patterns or set to actual songs, hoping he'll remember them better. She glances up at the ash tree, full of crows, and a memory flickers.

"Hey, Sam," she asks, "can you count?"

"Yeah! Almost as high as Dean can!"

She laughs. "I thought so! You're so smart." She takes his hand and leads him into the yard, stopping in front of the ash tree. "Let's play a little fortune-telling game," she says in an almost-whisper. 

"Like fortune cookies?" Sam whispers excitedly. 

"Just like fortune cookies. I'm going to say a poem, and then we're going to scare all of the birds out of this tree. You see if you can count them, okay? But you have to be really quiet so you don't scare them out until after I say the poem."

Sam nods excitedly, and Barbara softly speaks:

_One for sorrow,_  
_Two for mirth_  
_Three for a funeral,_  
_Four for birth_  
_Five for heaven_  
_Six for hell_  
_Seven for the devil, his own self._

Then she runs at the tree and yells _boo!_ Sam joins in, laughing hysterically, then stops to look into the sky and count the big black birds that flap out from the tree's branches. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven! Did I get it right?"

Her heart feels heavy for some reason. It's just a silly rhyme. It doesn't mean anything.

"Yes, you got it right. You really are good at counting." 

Barbara stares at the tree, her hands in her pockets. She can almost hear Sam reciting the poem in his head. His smile fades and he looks up at her with eyes that are much too solemn for his baby face. "Seven for the devil? Miss Barbara? Does that mean my fortune is... I'm going to the devil?"

Barbara pats him on the shoulder. "No, silly. It means I'm making us deviled eggs for lunch." She looks back up at the tree. It's just crows. It doesn't really mean anything if it's not magpies. And it's just a silly old rhyme anyway. It doesn't mean anything.

. . . 

Andy and John get back late that night. Her husband hugs her tight and tells her the hunt is over, and she wishes she could be happier for him, but the end of a hunt isn't ever going to bring back what she's lost. And this one, as she watches John Winchester gently sling a sleeping Sam over his shoulder, is particularly hard.


	3. Little Rock, Arkansas

_III. Little Rock, Arkansas. Sam Winchester is seven years old._

The city they're driving through has a million stoplights. Dad's complaining about hitting _every single goddamn red light, Jesus H. Christ,_ Sam's hot and tired, and Dean's at that point of agitation and boredom where Sam knows he's gonna do either something awesome, or something awful. 

They stop at yet another red light and Dean turns to Sam and says "Wanna see me make it turn green?"

"You can't do that," Sam scoffs.

"Oh yeah?" Dean grins. "Just watch me. You keep an eye on our light, okay?" Sam obediently stares at the light on the corner of the intersection. "One, two... _three!"_ The light turns green and Sam squeals in delight. Even Dad laughs.

"Do it again!" Sam exclaims at the next red light.

"Hold on," Dean says. "Let me gather up my strength." He takes a couple of deep breaths and balls his hands into tight fists, glaring at the traffic light. "Okay, you ready? One. Twoooooo. Three!" Again, the light turns green on cue and Sam shrieks with glee.

"Show me how! Show me how!" he cries.

"You just gotta think about it _real_ hard," Dean says. "Concentrate." 

At the next red light, Sam clutches his hands into tight fists, stares at the light, and thinks _hard_ , trying to force the light to bend to his will. "One, two, three!" But nothing happens.

"Do it again," Dean says, patting his shoulder. "I think you're almost there." But Sam doesn't try, and the light changes without any input on his part.

They stop at the next light while it's still yellow, and Sam has plenty of time to concentrate. Instead of tightening, he relaxes. Instead of demanding, he asks. He closes his eyes and talks to the light, just like he talks to grass and trees and birds. _Turn green, turn green, turn green, please_. The light isn't alive; it's made out of metal and glass, but something in his mind flutters like a butterfly beating its wings against the back of his eyeballs, and he _knows_ that when he opens his eyes, the light will be green.

It is.

Dad eases into the intersection, only to be met by the blast of a horn and a squeal of brakes as they're nearly t-boned by another driver. The guy throws up his hands and points to his light, which is clearly green. As green as theirs. Dad and the other driver look at both green lights, stare at each other, and look at the lights again. Eventually Dad waves the other guy through, and then checks for oncoming traffic before he proceeds slowly through the intersection. "Guess you forgot to turn that guy's light red," he laughs nervously.

Sam's heart sinks, because he _did,_ he did forget to turn the other light red. He should have known he'd never be able to do it as well as Dean. "I'm sorry, Dad," he says, past the tightness in his throat and the hot sting of tears. "I did it wrong. I almost made us wreck."

Dad laughs gently. "Sammy, you didn't do anything. You can't change the lights. We were just joking around with you, son."

"But _you_ did it," Sam says, turning to Dean. Sam's not as old or as smart as Dean, but if Dean can change the color of a light, doesn't that mean maybe Sam can do it too?

"He didn't do anything," Dad says. "He was watching the other light to see when it turned yellow. That's how he knew ours was about to turn green." 

Dean looks confused. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it and ruffles Sam's hair. "It's a dumb game anyway. Let's do something else. Want me to read King Arthur to you?" He pulls the book out of Sam's bag, but Sam just stares out the window. He doesn't want to hear about knights who were pure and good and never accidentally hurt someone just because they changed a light wrong. 

. . .

Later, when he's pretending to be asleep, he overhears Dean and Dad talking. 

"It's not one light that changes color. There's a separate green light and a red light."

"I know how traffic lights work, Dean."

"But the green light didn't come on. The red light just changed colors."

"That's not possible."

"I _know._ That's what I'm saying."

"No, son. You imagined it, or it was a trick of the light, or something."

 _"I_ was watching, Dad. _You_ weren't. I saw it."

"Dean, it couldn't have happened that way. Don't worry about it."

Sam hates making Dean worry about anything. He doesn't let himself talk to the traffic lights again.


	4. Elizabethtown, Pennsylvania

_IV. Elizabethtown, Pennsylvania. Sam Winchester is thirteen years old._

John Winchester's boys are growing up brave and smart and strong, and Caleb knows John is so proud of them it makes his heart hurt sometimes. But he also knows that a small part of John, the part that doesn't come out when he's sober, has no illusions about how he's raising his sons, or how Mary would be horrified at the life they're living. And since John spends a lot of time being not-sober, Caleb also knows something of his concerns about Sam. Something, not much, not enough for him to understand why John is so hard on the boy, why he keeps him held so tightly under his thumb, why he watches him with worried eyes.

They're dismantling a witch's workshop, trying to determine what needs to be burned and what absolutely should not be burned, when Caleb notices Sam flipping through a small leather-bound book. 

"Whatcha got there, Sam?"

Sam jumps, startled. "Just a book of spells."

Dean snatches the book out of his brother's hand. "Throw that on the burn pile, dude."

"Wait!" Sam reaches for the book. "We might need it!"

"For what? Do some spells of our own? This is witchy shit, Sam," he spits. "Why would you wanna hold onto this kind of crap? Monsters can't help being monsters, but witches are people who _choose_ to be monsters."

Sam flinches at his brother's words and turns pleading eyes to John. "But what if we need to undo a spell? What if we need to understand what they're doing, so we can stop them?" 

John wordlessly extends his hand and Dean obediently hands the book over. After flipping through its pages, John passes it to Caleb. It's a journal, much like a hunting journal, that someone has half-filled with handwritten spells. Luck. Healing. Good weather. Love. A happy home. Nothing particularly important to this witch, since she left it behind when she fled. Nothing that would hurt any of them. Nothing likely to break bad in inexperienced hands. 

"It's harmless," Caleb tells John. "White magic. Very basic."

Sam's face is a carefully arranged neutral expression, attempting to hide a world of hope. But John shakes his head. "Then it's nothing we'll need to understand or undo." He turns to Sam and fixes him with a _look._ "You find anything else like that, bring it to me."

"Yes sir." Sam's expression shutters and he turns away. But when Dean calls his father to look at a discovery, Caleb takes advantage of the distraction to place the book on a table before joining them. If it doesn't end up in the burn pile, well. A little white magic isn't the worst thing the boy could get into.


	5. Waterloo, Iowa (II)

_V. Waterloo, Iowa. Sam Winchester is fifteen years old._

Barbara O'Malley knows something is coming. She's seen the portents, felt the change in the air. But she's still surprised when she answers a knock at her door and sees the boy on her front porch. He's taller than her now, and his sweet round baby face has grown lean and angular, but she'd recognize that smile anywhere. And those eyes; moss green one day, sunflowers against a blue summer sky the next. 

"Mrs. O'Malley?" he says, earnest and polite. "You probably don't remember me, but when I was little, my father -"

"Sam. Little Sam Winchester. Don't just stand there, boy. Come here and give me a hug."

He stops with a look of shock, and then his smile widens. "Hey, Miss Barbara," he says, enveloping her in a hug. "It's good to see you again."

. . . 

He doesn't know how long he'll be in Waterloo. Until the end of the school year, he hopes, but it depends on John's hunt. It breaks her heart to learn that not only is John still obsessed with the quest to find his demon, but that Dean and Sam are mired in the seemingly hopeless hunt as well. She doesn't know many hunters any more, and hasn't really seen any since Andy died, but she's sure most of them wouldn't choose to drag their children into the life. But Sam assures her he plans to get out when he can, and until then, he wants to learn how to keep his little family safe.

So she teaches him. She tells him when to harvest marigold and St. John's wort, explains which plants will slow bleeding, which will prevent bad dreams, which will protect, which will purify. She teaches him rituals and sigils to protect a loved one and to ward against an enemy, and he dutifully copies spells and recipes into his little black leather journal. She shows him how to cast a circle, anchoring it with earth, air, fire, and water. She shows him how to make a sachet using protective herbs that can be found at any grocery store, and they make tiny bundles of cloth filled with basil, rosemary, and tarragon to tuck into secret spots in cars and houses. He solemnly recites the spell to charge them: _By water, earth, fire and air, respect that for which I care,_ and transcribes it into his journal.

He's an excellent student, just as she always knew he would be. It's in his blood, in his bones. 

"Anyone can do a simple spell," she tells him. "But those who are born with natural magic can bump it up to the next level." 

"I don't need anything super powerful," he says. "I just want to keep us safe."

After a few weeks, he tells her his father finally called. The hunt is over; they're leaving in a couple of days. Barbara has him cut a limb off the ash tree in the backyard and they carve and sand it into small, smooth ovals to be carried for protection and healing. Sam burns a protective sigil into two of them and makes them into keychains for Dean and John. "I'll tell them I did it in shop class," he says, with a wicked grin. "They'll trust anything that comes out of shop class."

On Sam's last evening at Barbara's, they go into the backyard, under the old ash tree, and she goes through every kind of protective ritual she can remember. She smudges him and his weapons with smoke from burning cypress and carnations, anoints his forehead with rosemary-infused oil, and tucks pressed angelica flowers into his wallet. 

As sunset approaches, he looks up into the tree, now rustling with crows. "Hey, Miss Barbara, do you remember the fortune telling rhyme?" he says. He recites it without waiting for her answer.

_One for sorrow,_  
_Two for mirth_  
_Three for a funeral,_  
_Four for birth_  
_Five for heaven_  
_Six for hell_  
_Seven for the devil, his own self._

He tosses a stone into the tree and crows scatter across the ink-blue sky. Three, and then another three, and then one. And her heart sinks a little.

"Did you count them?" he asks.

"Oh, no," she lies. "My old eyes have a hard time counting crows in the dark."

"It was seven. It usually is." He looks at her with those solemn eyes, the windows to his old, old soul, like he's looking for an answer.

"Hmmm." She puts her arm around him, leading him back into the house. "It's probably because you're growing into such a handsome devil." 

_It's just crows,_ she reminds herself. _Not magpies. You really need magpies to do it right._

Barbara feeds him dinner, writes her phone number in his journal, sternly instructs him to call her if he _ever_ needs _anything,_ and sends him away with ziplock bags full of dried herbs and a kiss to his rosemary-scented forehead.

She doesn't hear from him again.


	6. Bitterroot National Forest, western Montana

_VI. Bitterroot National Forest, western Montana. Sam Winchester is sixteen years old._

Sam's calm, way too fucking calm, which can only mean he doesn't get it, he doesn't see what's happening, he hasn't noticed how the entire leg of John's jeans is dark and heavy with blood, how their father isn't speaking and is only occasionally tracking them with his eyes.

"Get my bag," Sam says, still infuriatingly calm.

"Jesus, Sam!" Dean yells. "We can't fix this! We've gotta get him to a hospital!"

Sam just adjusts his hand over John's injury, pressing down hard (like it makes a difference, like a pressure point is going to be enough to get him to the hospital alive, oh jesus fucking christ) and digs his knife out of his pocket. "Dean," he barks, channeling John's Marine voice, "There's no time to get to a hospital. I need you to go _right fucking now and get my fucking bag."_

Something about that snaps Dean into action, triggers the part of his brain that follows orders. It seems like Sam has a plan and god knows Dean doesn't. He scrambles to the Impala and drags Sam's bag from the back seat. When he gets back, Sam has sliced John's jeans open, exposing the nasty claw wound across his thigh, and the slow pulse of blood oozing out makes Dean want to fall to his knees and vomit until there's nothing left inside. 

Instead, he kneels next to Sam and takes his place putting pressure on the wound while Sam digs for something in his duffel, coming up with a plastic bag full of some kind of dried plant material. He pushes Dean's hand aside and begins pressing the greyish-green substance into the wound, muttering something Dean can't really understand, something with a distinctive rhythm. Whatever it is, he repeats it several times, and the blood seeping from the injury finally comes to a stop. And Dean can breathe again.

. . .

He figures it out, of course. Eventually. He's not stupid, and he's not naive about the existence of witches. Just in denial about his own little brother being one.

. . .

It's a couple of weeks before he brings it up. John has gone out for a drink or two or three or a dozen - it's that time of year - and while Dean normally likes to warm a barstool next to him and hear his war stories, he doesn't like listening to the things that come up around the anniversary. He stays at the motel with Sam, with the busted TV and and the ancient rattling heater, and they both end up lying silently in their beds, wide awake, staring at the ceiling.

"So," Dean says, without looking at his brother. "That thing you did, with Dad, after the black dog. What was that?"

Sam doesn't answer for a few seconds. "Just comfrey," he says. "Stops bleeding. You know that. You've seen me use it before. I used it on you after the thing with the teeth."

"And you said it was, what? Some old Indian remedy?"

"Native American, yeah. Why?"

"Just, that chant of yours. It didn't sound Indian. Native American."

"Dean, if you're getting at something, just come on and say it."

Fine. "It sounded like a _spell,_ Sam."

Sam's quiet for a long time. Finally he sighs and says "Because it _was_ a spell."

Dean sits up, astonished, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "You used _witchcraft._ On _Dad."_

"Not the first time," Sam says, still staring at the ceiling. "Won't be the last."

"What the fuck, Sam? What were you thinking?"

"What I was _thinking_ was that I had to do whatever it took to save his life. Same way I've saved yours, by the way, in case you weren't aware."

Dean wasn't aware, not consciously, but he can't say he's entirely surprised either. He remembers wounds that healed too quickly, claws and teeth that went wide when they should have caught him easily, near-misses that should have been hits. And wonders how he never got it.

"I've been using witchcraft to protect you since I was thirteen years old," Sam continues. "And I'm not gonna stop just because you're freaked out about it. So you're just gonna have to deal with it."

Dean lies back on the bed and contemplates this new information. On the one hand, it's witchcraft. Even someone as stubborn as Sam should understand the basic rule of hunting is that you don't become what you hunt. On the other hand, it's Sam. And it's not necessarily a bad thing, what he's doing. It saved their father. It's saved his own ass a time or two (and he's not thrilled to realize that things he attributed to his own skill as a hunter might have been done with Sam's assistance, but he can think about that some other time). Sam's trustworthy. Sam knows what's out there. Sam won't do anything stupid. 

"You're not gonna do anything bad with it, right?"

"Never have," Sam says. "Never will."

"Well, okay then. See that you don't." 

And Dean will always be there to watch him, anyway, which is how he makes himself okay with it.


	7. Palo Alto, California

_VII. Palo Alto, California. Sam Winchester is twenty-one years old._

The first thing Bennett learns about Sam is that his friends call him _the witch doctor._

Jessica's girlfriends swear by his ginger chamomile tea for cramps. Everyone agrees that study sessions held in Sam and Jess's apartment, scented with a mixture of herbs and flowers, are more productive and lead to better results than study sessions held anywhere else. Anyone complaining of nightmares gets one of Sam's tiny thyme-filled linen bags to put under their pillow, bringing peaceful sleep. Whether you're suffering from a cold, or asthma, or stomach problems, Sam has some kind of tea, some weird flower to wear around your neck, some rhyme mumbled under his breath as he waves a burning stick over you, to make you all better.

Bennett doesn't believe in it. He's not one of those woo-woo California kids who are into that hippy dippy bullshit. He's from the Midwest, where people have common sense. So the night before the LSAT, when Sam gives everyone in his study group a sprig of hazel tied with red and gold thread, he shoves it in his jacket pocket and doesn't think about it.

And then he does well. Like, really, unexpectedly well. Not as good as Sam, the fucker, but better than his practice tests indicated he would do. And then he leaves his car on the street overnight and doesn't get a ticket, and he finds a twenty dollar bill on the sidewalk, and his piece of shit computer stops crashing so often, and his asshole roommate gets a girlfriend and starts actually leaving the apartment occasionally... basically, things seem to be going his way for a while. Until he empties his jacket pockets and tosses that dried-up hazel sprig away, and then things go back to normal.

Well, then. 

Brady assures him Sam Winchester is the real thing. And thinking about it, the dude's got a hot girlfriend who definitely could have done better, a full-ride scholarship, stupidly high scores in everything he does... maybe there _is_ a little magic involved, after all. So the next time he's invited to a study session at Sam and Jessica's apartment, he's tempted.

Beckoning Sam into the tiny kitchen, he clears his throat, feeling ridiculously nervous. "Hey, ah. You do a lot of things, like, healing, and good luck, and stuff."

"Yeah?" Sam looks like the human version of a golden retriever, his entire face saying _yes, I'd love to help you,_ so Bennett decides to go for it.

"You think you could whip me up a love potion?" he whispers. "For Jordan?" He quickly flicks his eyes at the gorgeous redhead curled into a corner of the couch; the girl who's been making him crazy since their sophomore year.

Sam's eyebrows slam down. "No. I don't do anything like that."

"Oh, yeah, right," Bennett laughs uneasily. "Like Jessica's into you because of your sparkling personality. Come on. Share a little bit of _that_ magic."

Sam crosses his arms and honestly looks menacing as _fuck,_ the earnest puppy-boy instantly transforming into something dangerous. "I don't do that kind of stuff. Not to Jess. Not to anybody. And why would you want it? If she's only interested in you because of some spell, that means she's _not_ interested in you. Or are you just looking for some kind of magic roofies?"

"No, man, it's nothing like that," Bennett pleads. "I just need a little nudge. I've been stuck in the friend zone for years and I just need something to, you know, make her look at me like boyfriend material."

"Look," Sam sighs, "if you want her to look at you differently, you need to change _you._ Not _her."_ He stomps back into the living room and plops down on the couch between Jordan and that out-of-his-league girlfriend of his. And sure, he's good-looking and tall and smart, but shit, Jessica Moore could have easily snagged a boyfriend who was all that _and_ rich, so there's gotta be some funny business there.

Whatever it is, the guy isn't going to share. Fucking Sam Winchester, man.


	8. Sioux Falls, South Dakota (I)

_VIII. Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Sam Winchester is twenty-three years old._

Dean stops the borrowed van and shuts off the ignition, but he doesn't move. Doesn't say anything. He's been silent ever since they left the hospital, but his silence weighs heavier right now. It's a physical presence, its weight bowing them both down, pressing against Sam until he can barely breathe. Dean stares at his hands, white-knuckled on the steering wheel, and doesn't look up when he finally speaks.

"Are you sure there's nothing you can do?"

"Do?" Sam asks, confused. "What do you mean?"

"You know." Dean makes a tiny abortive movement with his head, an almost-gesture toward the back of the van. John Winchester, once larger than life, all that fight and fury now wrapped up in an impossibly small and still body bag.

"About _Dad?_ You're asking me what I can do about _Dad?"_

Dean doesn't answer, which is an answer in itself.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Dean!" Sam explodes. "All those years you spent warning me not to go dark, not to use witchcraft for _anything shady,_ and now you're asking me if I can raise him from the dead? You think maybe I was dabbling in fucking _necromancy_ while I was at Stanford? You really think that if I had the ability to resurrect Dad, I would have taken a pass on bringing Jessica back?" 

Dean's still staring at his hands and Sam wants to punch him, wants to smash his own hand through the windshield just to feel something other than what he feels right now. Instead, he puts his face in his hands and tries to center himself, to clear his mind. He doesn't know any spell, any ritual, any talisman or balm to cure him of being so angry and hurt and bereft and lost, but eventually he feels like he can speak to Dean without screaming at him.

"Why would you even think of that? Why would you go there?"

Finally Dean looks up at him with red-rimmed eyes. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I had to ask."

Sam's witchcraft is white and harmless and puny and utterly useless, and that night he watches his father burn and wonders if he would have been proud or disappointed in him for that.


	9. Pontiac, Illinois

_VIII. Pontiac, Illinois. Sam Winchester is twenty-five years old._

Ruby sits next to Sam. (Close, but not too close, a carefully calculated distance.) "I know what you're thinking," she says. (Sincere. Caring.) "You think if you get strong enough at witchcraft, you can get Dean out of Hell. But Hell's full of witches, Sam. I was a damn good witch. If there was a way to magic myself out of Hell, don't you think I would have done it? Don't you think I would have helped you break Dean's contract, if it could have been done by witchcraft?" 

She puts her hand on his knee. (Affectionate. Not sexual. He's not there yet. He's lonely and scared and probably touch-starved, torn apart by grief and guilt, and he's almost exactly where she wants him to be. All she has to do is get rid of his last life raft.) 

He glares at her, but doesn't pull away.

"There might be something, though. If it doesn't get Dean out, it will at least let you get vengeance on Lilith. You'll need to put the witchcraft aside. It's something that doesn't mix well. But I think you'll appreciate it, in the long run."

He takes a deep shuddering breath and runs a hand down his face. "Okay," he says bleakly. "Okay. What do I need to do?" 

(Ah. There. She has to suppress her relief and mimic sympathy instead. Everything is falling into place.)


	10. Sioux Falls, South Dakota (II)

_IX. Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Sam Winchester is twenty-eight years old. Give or take a few hundred years._

Lucifer shows up after Sam's wall is brought down and he doesn't go away. Sam's brain eventually accepts that it's only a hallucination, not the actual Devil, but that just means it's part of _Sam._ It doesn't make it any better. He needs to get it out.

He performs the same cleansing ritual Barbara O'Malley did long ago, passing an egg over his body, willing the psychic debris of Hell to be absorbed by the egg. He carefully cracks it into a small bowl, watching for a spot of blood that indicates he needs more purification. But instead of a dribble of yolk and white, he's met with a rush of blood. Pints and pints of dark, thick blood, oozing out of the eggshell, overfilling the bowl, oh god, spilling over Bobby's kitchen counter, coating his fingers, dripping onto his boots. He drops the shell in horror and backs away until he hits the opposite counter, and even then he presses his back against it, _no, no, no,_ trying to go further, feet scrabbling and slipping in the pools of blood on the floor, vision going dark.

Then he blinks and the blood is gone. The bowl on the counter holds only an egg yolk, floating pristine in a sea of egg white.

"Sam? You okay?" Sam jumps at the sound of Dean's voice. He doesn't know how long his brother has been standing in the doorway, but judging by the look on his face, long enough.

"Yeah," he answers, rubbing a trembling hand down his face. "I'm good." 

Dean motions to the bowl on the counter. "You hungry? I can make you some eggs."

A wave of nausea rolls through him at the thought of eating. "No. Thanks. I'm good."

(In the corner, Lucifer laughs. _You're not even close to good, Sam.)_

. . .

Later, Sam slips out from under Bobby and Dean's watchful eyes and goes out to the garage. He draws his elements from a worn leather pouch - a stone, a feather, a tea candle, a sea shell - and uses them to cast a protective circle. He stands inside the circle and tries to clear his head. What used to come easily to him is now almost impossible, but eventually he stops seeing movement out of the corner of his eye, stops hearing sounds that shouldn't be happening in Bobby's garage, and he sets up a stronger purification ritual. Sam places three candles inside the circle, surrounding them with bay leaves, acacia, and sandalwood, and lights the first. But as he begins the incantation, the candle's flame erupts, stretching almost to the ceiling. It twists and curls to form Lucifer's face, his true face, in all its unspeakable, unforgettable horror. Sam falls outside of the circle, screaming in terror at the fiery nightmare above him.

Then Dean is there somehow, yanking him away from the circle, wrapping himself around Sam and saying "it's okay, it's okay" as Sam screams and screams, because it's not okay, it's never going to be okay again. When Sam forces himself to look up, the flame is just a flame, not a horrific face, not a monster, just a huge geyser of flame erupting from one small candle. Bobby's using the fire extinguisher on it, and Sam doesn't know whether to be horrified or relieved that at least the fire itself was real, not a hallucination.

"Dude," Dean pants. "I don't know what you were trying to do there, but I think maybe you shouldn't."

Sam doesn't attempt any magic again for a very long time.


	11. Emerson, Manitoba

_X. Emerson, Manitoba. Sam Winchester is thirty-four years old._

Asa Fox kept a garden at his mother's house, and while some of it was obviously intended for cooking, Max notices wormwood, meadowsweet, and other plants he's been using in spellwork since he was old enough to form the words correctly. He's gathering herbs to add to the pyre when he hears Sam Winchester's voice behind him.

"So, you _do_ actually use your skills for something other than seducing men."

Max turns and gives him his best slow, sultry smile. It's probably not going to get him anywhere, but a guy's gotta try. "Well, you're still wearing pants, so I guess my seduction skills are on the fritz."

Sam ducks his head and grins shyly at his boots and _fuck,_ he may be six and a half feet of pure muscle, but that shy little boy thing is a good look on him. A _damn_ good look. "That's probably for the best," Sam says. "I'm too old for you anyway."

"Ah, you don't know, man. I'm an old soul."

The smile fades. "Yeah, well. Same here. And it's not just the years. It's the mileage. My soul's been..."

"Rode hard and put up wet?"

"That's one way of putting it," Sam says, with a bitter little laugh. He examines the bundle of herbs in Max's hand. "You got anything particular in mind? I noticed some angelica down at the end of this row. Thought I'd get a little."

"You're a practitioner?" Max is kind of surprised. Most hunters are anti-witchcraft, after all. But also, kind of not surprised, because you just get a feeling about people. 

Sam shrugs. "Not so much. Not any more, at least. Ever since Hell. I can do really basic stuff - amulets, protective spells, a little healing. Anything complicated tends to go wonky."

"I'm sorry, man. That's a loss." The words are insufficient. Losing his own ability to do witchcraft would be like losing a limb. He can't imagine what Sam feels.

But Sam just shrugs again. "Coulda been worse. Coulda been a lot worse." He motions toward the other end of the garden with a tilt of his head. "I'll go get that angelica and see if I find anything else that looks useful." 

Then's he's walking away and, well. That's a loss too.


	12. Lebanon, Kansas (I)

_XI. Lebanon, Kansas. Sam Winchester is thirty-five years old._

Rowena doesn't know what time it is, but she does know it's too early for anybody to be calling her. Even Sam Winchester. "Samuel," she groans. "I told you, a girl needs her beauty sleep."

Sam's voice is calm and soft. "Rowena. Lucifer's dead."

_Dead. Lucifer is dead._ Her heart lurches; her whole body goes numb. There's a strange buzzing in her ear, and after a few moments, she realizes she's standing beside her bed, and the buzzing is Sam's voice.

"Rowena? Are you there? Are you okay?"

She takes a deep breath. "Are you sure, Sam?"

"I'm sure. I'm very, very sure."

"Oh, gods and goddesses." She collapses onto the bed again and lets the relief wash over her. "How did you do it?"

"It was Dean. He let Michael use him as a vessel, and he was able to kill Lucifer. But now." He's less calm. His voice breaks. "Now Michael won't release him. Please, Rowena. I need your help to get him back."

Rowena doesn't want to care about the tragic, heroic end of Dean Winchester. The life of one mortal man seems a small price to pay, considering. But there _is_ the long-term problem of the archangel Michael being determined to take over this world. And the more immediate problem of Sam Winchester's voice breaking as he begs for help, which is rather difficult to resist.

"I'm on my way."

. . .

By the time she arrives, dragging her oversized bag down the bunker's staircase, she has a plan. Sam meets her halfway up and takes the bag, grunting in surprise at its weight. Below him, the other residents of the bunker - his mother, the older fellow from beyond the rift, the angel, and the nephilim boy - stare up at her in silence. "You two will have to go," she says, gesturing to the angel and the nephilim. 

"Hello to you, too," says the grumpy older fellow. Bobby? Yes, Bobby.

She ignores him. "We'll be using some pretty powerful magic. _Anything_ that has angel grace should take a long, long walk."

The angel reluctantly nods in agreement, but the nephilim boy looks up at Sam with a hurt expression. "I don't like her. And most of my grace is gone."

"Most, not all," Sam says, putting a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, Jack. I trust her."

The boy clearly doesn't, but he doesn't put up an argument, trailing behind the angel with a worried glance thrown over his shoulder as they climb up and out of the bunker.

"All right," she says, "Where is the most secure place in the bunker?"

"Um. We've got a dungeon?"

Och, these Men of Letters. So self-righteous. So suspicious of everything they can't control or understand. "Of course you do. Take me to your dungeon, Samuel."

. . . 

They need blood for the sigils. More than she has in her bag. Sam offers his own, but she shakes her head. "We'll be using plenty of _your_ blood later."

"Oh, that's not ominous at all," Bobby mutters. Luckily, he's willing to bleed for the cause. Sam drains him of a pint of blood, takes another pint from his mother, and then orders them to sit in the kitchen and drink some juice and stay away until they're called. They protest, of course. "I'm as much a part of this as you are," Bobby says. "Michael killed my friends. My family."

Rowena raises an eyebrow at him. "And there's a good chance you'll be added to that list if you're here when he shows up. Upstairs with you." Sam gives him a pleading look and Mary takes his arm and he finally makes his retreat, vowing to come back if "something funny happens."

Whatever does happen, Rowena is sure it's not going to be funny at all.

She sketches out the necessary sigils on a sheet of paper and she and Sam go to work. Some of them are unfamiliar to him, and he paints them slowly and painstakingly, but others are obviously part of his regular repertoire and his strokes are quick and confident. It takes over an hour to finish. When they're done, the room is practically vibrating with power; she feels it from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Sam looks uncomfortable enough that she's sure he can feel it as well. But he just wipes his hands on his jeans and says "okay, what's next?"

She clears off a table and begins the spells proper. As she chalks out her first circle, she casually says "you should know, you'll be the one doing the spell, not me."

"Me?" His voice almost cracks.

"You."

"But I don't -"

"Look, Sam. I'm neither stupid nor blind. You've obviously got some powers hidden under all that plaid, even if you don't realize it yourself." She waves a hand dismissively over his unfortunate outfit. "We've just got to coax it out of you."

"No, it's not that." He looks away, but not before she reads the pain and shame on his face. "I used to do magic. Not much, nothing compared to you. But ever since... Since Lucifer. Since Hell. My magic is... I don't know... Broken. I've mostly put it away."

Oh, so he's actually dabbled in witchcraft? And all this time she supposed he was either unaware of his innate ability, or suppressing it because he's a hunter. This might be easier than she'd feared. "Don't worry, dear," she says reassuringly. "I can fix that, when the time comes." His brow remains furrowed, but she ignores it as she places a wooden bowl in the center of her circle and inscribes sigils around it. As she works, Sam watches intently, noting each ingredient. He doesn't look at the book. If he recognizes that she's working from the Black Grimoire, he doesn't mention it. He does, finally, speak.

"Rowena," he says tentatively, "this is... this is a _love_ spell." 

Ah, so he does know a bit about spellwork. This is going to be interesting.

"Exactly."

"But how is that going to help? Are you hoping to seduce Michael or something?"

"Oh, Samuel," she laughs. Sweet naive boy. "Do you think romantic love is the only love there is? Love is love, darling. The spell is going to use your love for your brother to bind him to you, and then we'll use the angel banishing spell to send the angel away. With any luck, Michael is cast far from here, but Dean stays in your dungeon. And that's why _you_ have to be the one to cast the spell." 

She suppresses a laugh at his confused expression. "It runs on love. I may appreciate your brother's company occasionally, but I certainly can't say I _love_ him." 

He still has an unsettled frown. "Don't worry, dear." She smiles up at him. "I have faith in you." He obviously has none in himself, and he continues to watch her with a troubled face as she scribes another circle and assembles the archangel summoning in a large, engraved brass bowl. 

Once she has combined almost all of the ingredients, she takes a smaller brass bowl and her silver dagger out of her bag. "Time to bleed," she says cheerfully. "But remove that plaid monstrosity first." He gives her a puzzled look, but obeys, stripping down to a worn grey t-shirt. 

"Your arm, please." He holds out his left arm and barely winces as she makes a quick slash across his forearm, placing the bowl underneath to collect the blood that wells out. She divides the contents between the two larger bowls, mixing each. "And now the other side." He obediently holds out his right arm and she slashes it as well, collecting more blood in the small bowl.

"All right. Remove the t-shirt." He raises an eyebrow. "Trust me, Samuel. It's for business, not pleasure." He complies, and she dips a finger into the bowl of blood and begins marking on his skin, sigils of protection, power, and binding, up one arm and down the other, and as her finger raises goosebumps on his firm body, she has to admit that it's actually not too far from pleasurable after all.

He looks away as she works, clears his throat a couple of times, and finally speaks. "Rowena, I'm sorry I tried to shoot you."

"As well you should be." She doesn't meet his eyes, but continues her work.

"I didn't want to. I just felt like I had to." 

She moves to his back. "Well. It's your fate, isn't it?" He doesn't answer, but she feels his muscles tense under her fingertip. "No matter, dear. You were willing to kill me, but you were also willing to save me. I haven't forgotten that you gave me the page from the Black Grimoire. And anyway, I was willing to kill you too, so, I suppose we're even."

"It doesn't have to be that way. I've changed my fate before. I can do it again."

She touches his arm with her blood-free hand, rotating him to face her. "Of course you can," she says lightly, drawing the angel banishing sigil on his chest. "People defy fate every day." She doesn't mean it. She's quite sure that if anyone kills her, it will be Sam Winchester. And accepting her destiny is oddly freeing.

"All right." She stands at arm's length from him, examining her work. _Perfection._ She dries the painted blood with a wave of her hand and then helps him slip the awful plaid shirt back on, leaving it unbuttoned but covering the sigils, to prevent Michael from seeing what they're up to. 

"Now, Samuel, have a seat, and we'll work on fixing that so-called broken magic of yours."

He lowers himself into a chair and looks up at her with a flash of fear in his eyes, and she can't blame him. The last time he was in this position, she was preparing to kill him. "Don't worry, dear," she murmurs. She pushes her hands into his hair, placing her palms flat against his head. "This won't hurt a bit."

She eases into her spiritual state and tries to slip inside, but he's too guarded. _You need to let me in, Sam_ she says, her spirit speaking to his, and there's a hesitation, an exhaled breath, and then she's inside, and oh. _Oh._

He is a wonder. He is the vast Kansas plains, golden heads of wheat brushing against her outstretched hands, he is sunflowers against a blue summer sky, he is a towering thunderstorm rolling in from the west, crackling with power, the smell of ozone and rain, he is Lebanon, the center, he is the unexamined catacombs of the bunker itself, strong and deep, filled with the sacred and the profane. And behind that, under it, inside it somewhere, is his lurking power.

She goes deeper. She feels a young boy's terror, feels the grown man's fierce and undying love and loyalty, skitters along the edge of incomprehensible agony left over from Hell.

Deeper still, and she finds his power, massive but hobbled, huddled under a shroud-like layer of guilt and fear. So much fear. Fear of doing wrong, of hurting others, of being rejected or hunted for his talents. Fear of horrors he endured that cannot be forgotten. His power is bound by his own inhibitions as securely as the Grand Coven bound her own power. 

She reaches out, curls tendrils of her power around his, and gasps at its shocking depth and intensity even as it recoils from her. _Do not be afraid, dear boy,_ she says. _You can do no wrong._ She draws the fear aside, binding it with her power, and suddenly all that he is shines as brightly as the sun in the endless Kansas sky, unbelievably deep and wide and strong, stronger than she had ever imagined, and in a heartbeat she sees the potential. If his inchoate, bound power is this immense, what could he accomplish if it were released and allowed to flourish? Nothing could stop him. And then she knows; she sees the opportunity and she _knows_ what she has to do.

_Samuel,_ she says. _Sam. I think if I combine our powers, you can do more than send Michael away from the bunker. I think you can send him back to his own world. Perhaps even destroy him. Will you let me?_

_Yes,_ he answers, without hesitation. Without question. She had half-hoped he would refuse, or at least ask what that entailed. Ah, well. 

She weaves their powers together, twisting hers around his. Strengthening and reinforcing. Stubbornly ignoring her own doubt and fear, the pain in her heart, because if this is what it takes, this is what it takes. As she works on the spiritual plane, she sends her body to work in the physical plane, bookmarking the spells he will need in the Black Grimoire. 

Finally she's ready. No, she'll never be _ready._ But it's time.

_Sam, dear, there's one last thing you must do. You must separate my magic from me._

_How do I do that?_

_My silver dagger. Right in my heart._

His reaction is just as she knew it would be. Shock, horror, dismay, a sick wave of guilt. _No._

_Sam. This is the best way. And if this is to be my fate, let it mean something. Let us do something truly outstanding together, you and I. Fergus isn't the only one who can make a sacrifice. And neither are you._

But he still hesitates, so she reaches in and gives him a _push._ On the spiritual side, she feels him quake with grief. On the physical side, she feels his broad hand pressed against her back, holding her upright as he plunges the blade into her chest, splitting her open. There's a second of intense pain, a flash of loss and regret. And then she feels nothing.


	13. Lebanon, Kansas (II)

_XII. Lebanon, Kansas. Sam Winchester is as old as the Earth itself._

Sam feels Rowena's magic bloom inside him, unleashing his own.

He remembers Gabriel saying her location spell tasted like haggis, and he laughs, because he can taste it on the back of his tongue, haggis and whiskey and peat smoke, _tatties_ and _neeps,_ can feel the prickle of thistle and the cold brine of the North Sea, and flickering behind his eyelids he sees the low ancient mountains crowned with heather and gorse, the green valleys, the grey clouds coming down to meet the sea. He feels her in his bones, thrumming through his veins, fierce and furious, feels her strength and determination, her all-encompassing power enhancing his. He summons magic from the air around him, from the bedrock under the bunker and the grass and trees above it, from the brilliant blue sky wheeling overhead, from the flotsam and jetsam collected by the Men of Letters that surrounds him, feels it coursing through him, and he knows he cannot fail. 

He finds the white satin ribbon that marks the first spell, the archangel summoning. As his lips form the almost-familiar words, power flows around him, through him. He tosses a lit match into the brass bowl. There's a bright flash of light and a whiff of ozone and then, _oh god,_ Dean is there, Dean is standing before him, and he wants to collapse in relief at the sight of his brother, but he's not done, and he has so little time to work. 

Dean - no, _Michael_ \- narrows his eyes as he spins slowly in place, examining the warding around him.

"You're a fool, boy," he says, making Dean's voice flat and emotionless. "This won't hold me long."

It's not supposed to. Sam quickly moves on to the spell marked with a blue ribbon, the binding spell, dropping a lit match into the wooden bowl and reciting the words. Again he feels the power flowing through him, and then the magnetic tug between him and the heart and soul that lie beneath Michael's sneer.

Finally he slices his palm open with Rowena's bloodstained silver dagger, opens his shirt, and slaps the mixture of her blood and his own onto the sigil painted on his chest. It burns cold, like Lucifer's grace, burns all the way through him, and he screams as the dungeon erupts in light, as the tugging sensation magnifies until it feels like his heart is being ripped from his chest, as every lightbulb in the room explodes, spraying a shower of glass over him.

Then it's done. In the dark, over his own heaving breaths, he hears his brother's voice.

"Sammy?"

Sam pulls his phone from his pocket and holds it in front of him with a trembling hand. Dean - clearly _Dean_ \- is on his knees in front of him, blinking up at him in the phone's weak blue light. "Sammy?" he says again. "You good?"

Sam sinks to his knees and wraps his arms around his brother. The dungeon smells like ozone and blood and the burned remains of Rowena's spellwork, but Dean just smells like _Dean,_ and Sam breathes him in. "Yeah. I'm good."


	14. Epilogue

Dean's been asleep for an hour before Sam is finally comfortable abandoning the chair at his bedside. He feels that magnetic pull again, somewhere in the center of his chest, as soon as he closes the door behind him. He breaks the binding spell with a swift hand gesture. Now that an archangel is no longer trying to keep them apart, they don't need any kind of magic to bind them together. He pads softly downstairs to the dungeon, picking up a lantern and a box of light bulbs on the way.

The lantern reveals Rowena's body lying peacefully on the cot against the wall. It feels wrong, her normally lively form so cold and still. Sam had half expected her to be sitting up, laughing at him, _have you forgotten about my resurrection charm, Moose,_ but either she never had time to redo it after Lucifer burned her, or it relied on her now-displaced magic.

"Doesn't matter," he tells her conversationally. He carefully removes the shattered light bulbs and replaces them with new ones, because he needs light for what he's about to do. "I may be the one who has to kill you, but that doesn't mean I have to let you stay dead."

Once the room is sufficiently lit, he turns to the Black Grimoire. There's one more bookmark; a red satin ribbon. He turns to the marked page and laughs. "But I guess you knew that, didn't you?" he says, as he reads the spell Rowena left for him - a spell of resurrection.

It's dark. Powerful. In the wrong hands, it would be dangerous. It's exactly the type of magic he's avoided all his life. But as he studies it, he knows he is the _right_ hands, and he can't wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Just like last year, I was both thrilled and horrified to be given a recipient whose work I'm such a big fan of - horrified because I didn't think I could come up with anything worthy! The prompt I chose was basically _Sam as a witch,_ and I'm afraid my fic was more about Sam _not_ being a witch. But then again, I think this is how canon Sam's witchcraft experience probably would have worked out.


End file.
